Page 93 of Revenge on the Mafia

“Prick?”

“The prick who was here the other day,” he said tightly.

He meant Joel. How had Joel calmed me down? The only time I’d lost around him was after Papá’s death, and he hadn’t hung around to show me how he’d do it. “He wasn’t there.” ‘When I needed him’ went unsaid.

The noises behind me stopped. Steady footsteps approached me. My body tightened, but it wasn’t the kind of tension as the terror that had held me captive at the sight of… no… better not think of that. His calm voice fell on my skin like a warm scarf. “I’ll walk you to bed.” I made to turn around, but he put his index finger on my cheek and gave it a gentle shove to the front. “No looking.”

That he knew that I’d freak out even at the sight of his red-tinted shirt made me want to sag against him in relief. Instead, I forced myself to put one foot in front of another and walk.

“What happened?”

“Got distracted when I took the garbage out,” he muttered like it was an everyday occurrence.

The thought that it might very well be in his world made me come to a dead halt.

“Does it happen a lot?”

A pause. I didn’t need to look to know he was studying my reaction.

“Don’t worry. I’ll save the last stab for you, mia piccola assassina.”

Ice shot through my veins. I have to do it. For Papá. But the very thought of it… I forced down the bile rising in my throat. “Promise?” I choked out.

He laughed. It didn’t sound funny. “One hundred percent.” I started to walk again, but his next words froze me on the bottom step. “You’re the only one capable of ending me, stella.”

I turned to look at him, carefully avoiding his midriff. Looking at him felt like I was looking at a lost soul desperately seeking a home. The torment in his eyes seared through to my chest. My lungs tightened. It felt like an elastic band wrapped around too many times. I couldn’t survive this man. It felt like I was trying to breathe shards of glass.

“Come on.” He cupped my elbow and gave me a gentle turn. “Time to go back to bed.”

I let him walk me to his room. I got into his bed alone. He went into the dressing room, and when he came out, he had a clean shirt on. Black this time.

He stared at me from the doorway. Taking me in, seated with my knees folded to my chest, arms wrapped around them. He was frustrated. I could see it. I had a question for him. But it melted on my lips when he stalked out of the room.

I stared at the doorway. The silence was too loud in the room. He hadn’t laughed at my panic. He’d taken control and guided me gently. No one had ever handled me like that.

When he walked in a few minutes later, my relief must have been clearly visible. I stared at him as he came toward the bed and handed me a cup. “Maybe this will help.”

Chamomile tea. That’s what I did when I was gearing up for a panic attack. I wondered if Papá would have known that? Mamá definitely didn’t. How well does this man know me? He turned to leave.

“Stay.” I followed his gaze to my hand, where I had captured his. I pinned my eyes to him so he’d know how much I wanted this. “Por favor.”

He stilled. Jaw locking into place and eyes studying me with intent. Uncertainty vibrated with every breath. I didn’t know why it made me sad that he didn’t want to sleep with me.

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “If that’s what you want?” It was a question to which he wanted the answer to be a negation. I refused to give it to him.

His shoulder sagged. In resignation rather than relief.

He dropped to the edge of the bed. I placed the cup on the nightstand and shuffled out of the way. With a shake of his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he was doing, he kicked off his shoes and lay down on his back. Fully clothed and stiff as a plank.

I lay down next to him. As rigid as he was. My throat ached. I wanted to tell him that what I wanted was him. But saying those words meant I was betraying another, so I swallowed them down to the pit of my stomach.

“Does it happen often?” I repeated the question that was still on my mind instead.

He didn’t answer. I rolled my head to his. Jaw locked tight, one hand tucked under his pillow, and the other folded above his head, he was staring at the ceiling as if he were solving a mathematical equation. He probably was. His lips tightened, but his voice was calm when he spoke. “It only happens when I’m distracted.” He took a deep breath. “I’m never distracted.”

I wanted to ask him why he had been. I wanted to beg him to be careful next time. Then I thought how ridiculous it was when I was meant to end his life.

But the thing was, I didn’t want to do it anymore, and I didn’t even know why. And even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to handle it. Not without his help.